Nolo Contendere
by L.M.Lewis
Summary: What happens when the right answer is a lie?


Disclaimer: These are not my characters and I make no profit from them.

**Author's note: **A long while back I wrote three stories ("Rule X", "Hoops", and "Curriculum Vitae") which described the process by which McCormick, a convicted felon, was approved to sit for the bar exam. Somewhere in there, a hearing probably would have occurred in order to determine his moral character. I have no idea what goes on in such a hearing or how it is conducted.

So I made it up.

Thanks again, Owl and Cheri, for all the beta work this week.

_**Nolo Contendere**_

By L.M. Lewis

He'd been prepped, quizzed, polished, and then prepped some more. After all that, Hardcastle's casual assurance that the meeting with the committee from the California Bar was 'nothing to worry about, just routine' fell a little short of believable.

For one thing, Mark knew it wasn't routine. He'd been singled out—as far as he knew the only law student in his class to get more than the perfunctory paperwork clearance for the 'determination of moral character' part of their bar application. He and the judge had known this was coming, although it was such an uncommon thing that Mark couldn't get any clear notion of what it would be like.

"They'll ask you some questions, that's all," the judge had said.

"About what? Have I stolen any cars lately? What does this inkblot look like to you? Stuff like that?"

"Nah, nothing like that. They just want to get to know you. The paperwork only gives 'em the facts—"

Mark shuddered.

"Well," the judge shrugged, "you know what they say—it's your permanent record and all that."

"Thanks," Mark muttered morosely. Then he sighed. "So what do I say?"

The judge didn't ponder that one before he shot back, "The truth is usually a good idea."

Mark looked doubtful.

00000

And now the day had finally come—an otherwise fine Saturday morning. Down in the foyer of the building where the Bar Association had its offices, Mark submitted to one last look-over from the judge. There were hardly likely to be any crumbs on his shirt; he'd had no appetite for breakfast this morning.

"I don't know why you can't come with," Mark muttered. "I ought to be entitled to have my attorney present."

"It's not like that," the judge said, with unusual patience, since they had already been over this before. It might have been the natural inclusion of the '_my_ attorney' that had brought the small smile to his face. "It's just a chance for them to get to know you. It's not adversarial."

"It's a hearing—that's what it said in the letter, and that's plenty adversarial for me."

"Just don't turn it into that," the judge cautioned. "Anyway, if you don't get the nod after this round and we have to appeal, _then_ it becomes adversarial and you get some representation." He didn't need to add that it would also become a steep uphill fight.

He gave Mark a swat on the shoulder and a push in the right direction. "Might as well get it over with." And then, perhaps sensing that this was not the right tone to convey confidence, he added, "Go get 'em, kiddo."

Mark nodded as he trudged through the inner doors to the lobby. He cast one last glance over his shoulder. Hardcastle was still standing there, hands in his pockets and a considering expression on his face. The older man seemed to force a smile and hoisted a quick thumbs-up when Mark caught his eye.

Mark smiled back, wanly. Then he lifted his chin and lengthened his stride, heading across the empty lobby and into the waiting elevator for a rendezvous with his permanent record.

00000

It was a conference table and a committee of three, rather than a traditional courtroom setting with just one sitting in judgment, but none of that fooled Mark in the slightest. This was no conference. He sat on his side of the table, and they on theirs, and all of the questions would be going one-way.

He'd had only a moment to study the opposition; two men and a woman, but Hardcastle's contacts had at least been extensive enough to identify them in advance. The woman was Alma Portenoy, a retired defense attorney. Mark half-hoped that this element of her background would put her on his side. On the other hand, defense attorneys knew all the tricks and probably looked at being lied to as a fact of life.

One of the men was Jasper Atterby. He was an assistant DA with a reputation for going for the throat. Defense attorneys usually opted to keep their clients off the stand at his trials. This morning he was thumbing through the papers in front of him.

The other man was the wild card. Sam Tepitt, a hot junior partner from a big name law firm—not Hughes and Dewitt, thank God. This was undoubtedly just another line on his resume under 'professional associations and volunteer activities'. He probably spent most of his billable hours in the more rarefied air of corporate law. Where he stood on the subject of reformed ex-cons was anyone's guess.

Mark let his gaze go from each to the next as they introduced themselves, trying not to let his pre-formed hopes and fears reveal themselves. It was obvious, right from the start, that Atterby was the take-charge guy, and would be running things.

"We'll try and keep this brief," he said. "We're all familiar with your case."

Mark took note of the terminology. It was already slightly adversarial, he thought, him being a 'case'.

"And you, I'm sure, have familiarized yourself with the Rule X provisions," he added, with one eyebrow rising.

Mark simply nodded and said "Yes", without elaboration. The essence of cautious testimony was to stick to precisely what was being asked.

"Your previous career was not one which would lead us to believe that you are a good candidate for a profession which demands high ethical standards."

Mark was glad that this had not been phrased as a question. Another yes at this point would have sounded bad, but disagreeing would have been hard to defend.

"Can you tell us, Mr. McCormick, why you think you _do_ meet those standards?"

He was ready for this one. He'd already answered it for Hardcastle, with critiques and various stages of refinement, at least five times in the past week. He tried for a thoughtful pause, though, so it wouldn't come out sounding too much like a party piece.

"I wouldn't expect you to take my word for it," he began slowly, starting with something that would be hard to argue with, "and to a degree, you don't have to. I've already satisfied the requirements of the State of California with regards to obtaining a pardon."

This got him a slow nod from Portenoy, a bit of paper shuffling from Tepitt, and nothing at all from Atterby.

"Of course I understand that the standards of the bar are not necessarily the same as those for obtaining a pardon. Toward that, though I can give you my word that I am not the same person I was seven years ago, there's no absolute proof I can offer, beyond the evidence which is already part of the record. I don't think there's anyone else in my class whose day-to-day activities have been as well documented as mine, or who has been under closer scrutiny for that long a time. And if the law of evidence is one of the bedrocks of the legal system, then that is what you should trust, not merely my word."

Atterby gave just the slightest dip of his head. It might have been acceptance. Tepitt was still leafing through the folder in front of him. Mark had the annoying notion that he wasn't up to speed on the case.

Portenoy was gazing at him with calm, gray, deep-set eyes. Though she'd said nothing up to this point, he found himself looking toward her, certain that the next question would be from her direction. He wasn't mistaken.

"Mr. McCormick, your appeal to the evidence is understandable, under the circumstances. It appears that your _recent_ career has been very . . . productive."

She stroked one thumb up along the edge of the sheets, feathering them. A smile graced her face, but it was a knowing one, and Mark wondered just how much rumor had gotten back to her, or how good she was at reading between the lines. Then there was always the Hardcastle Factor—he hadn't mentioned any run-ins with her, but Mark suddenly didn't trust that smile.

Still, it hadn't been a question, so he kept his mouth shut. He merely leaned forward just slightly, forearms on the table and hands loosely clasped, trying to look utterly at her service.

"But," she said, and it had a sharp, inquiring tone to it, "I am more interested in the original circumstances that resulted in your becoming a two-time felon, or, to be more precise, your attitude toward those convictions."

It still wasn't exactly a question, but if it had been, Mark would have been struck dumb.

Portenoy's smile had flattened a little. "The pardoning process does not require convicted felons to express any remorse, no _mea culpa_ for what they have done. It's my experience that most people who have committed criminal acts are capable of the same behavior again when the circumstances present themselves. They are also very good at explaining why what they are doing is justifiable. It is precisely that sort of expedient, casual attitude toward ethics that the bar opposes."

Still not a question, more like a lecture, but he was now dead sure where she was going with it.

"I did not see that you had done that for either of your convictions—expressed remorse _or_ accepted responsibility. I, for one, would like to hear that from you."

More a command than a question, and it wasn't clear that whatever answer he gave would sit well with Atterby. Tepitt had leafed back further in the file, and was now looking up, interested.

Mark faltered. He'd thought about this, though mostly in connection with the earlier hearing for his pardon. Having escaped that with his dignity intact, he'd forced the idea of begging to the back of his mind. He hadn't even raised this issue with Hardcastle, and he was suddenly very glad that he'd come to this hearing unaccompanied.

He found himself clasping his hands a little tighter and he self-consciously willed them to relax.

"Both cases were felony theft of an automobile. The first one resulted in a fourteen month sentence which I served in Clarkville Prison, without incident."

"We're familiar with the specifics, Mr. McCormick," Atterby said impatiently, but Tepitt was now listening attentively with his head cocked.

Mark nodded sharply once. "I thought I was repossessing a car, but I was . . . misinformed. The circumstances were such that it was actually a theft—"

"Then you feel that your part in the event was not criminal?"

"No," Mark said stiffly. "I'd had enough experience doing repossession work that I ought to have known when something was shady, and once I knew that, it was my responsibility to figure out what was going on or, if that wasn't possible, just walk away from it."

"But you didn't?"

"I didn't," Mark said, deciding that any further pleadings based on the desire not to get one's knees shattered would just clutter the story. "And that makes it my responsibility," he concluded simply. Then, deciding maybe that wasn't quite enough, he added, "I learned a lot from that."

"Not everything, apparently," Portenoy cast him a quick glance, then tipped her head down, flipping the file open to a pre-marked page and peering at it. "A second episode, only two and a half years later."

Mark's lower lip was firmly pinned between his teeth. He'd known it was going to come to this. It made the previous groveling look like a mere formality. Question or no question, he felt all three lawyers pinning him to his seat with their stares. He couldn't help himself, he had to explain.

"I got out of Clarkville and I got back into racing. I got lucky. I won a couple of events and I bought a car. It was a Porsche.

"I had a friend—" He couldn't even bring himself to call her 'a girlfriend'. "—I put it in her name." He didn't explain why. That much they could figure out for themselves. "I was even paying the insurance on it." There, he thought that should make it obvious. "Three months later we had a fight. I walked out and drove off in the car. I was busted less than twelve hours later."

Atterby looked impatient. Portenoy seemed to be waiting for more. Only Tepitt was smiling. He probably hadn't expected the morning to be so entertaining.

"I was arrested driving a car which had someone else's name on the registration papers—"

"The rightful owner," Atterby intoned.

"By the laws of the State of California," Mark sighed, "_yes_."

"And that owner accused you of theft," Portenoy said with aggravating calmness. "And you were convicted."

"Yes," Mark said, "and yes."

A heavy, expectant silence fell over the room. Those steel-gray eyes were studying him, waiting.

"I could tell you I am sorry," Mark said slowly, "but a guy whose judgment I really respect told me I ought to stick to the truth in here."

To his surprise, even Atterby cracked the smallest of smiles on that one. And there was no doubt that even Tepitt got the reference.

Mark relaxed very slightly. "Look," he said, "those are the facts of the case, and by those facts, and the law, I was guilty. I accept that interpretation, but I'll be damned if I'll lie and say it's my interpretation, too." He sat up a bit straighter, warming to his argument. "The thing is—I didn't feel like I did that first time. When I got busted for driving the Porsche, a car I'd bought and paid for, I thought it was a mistake.

"Does the legal system ever make mistakes? Does it ever judge people based on what they've done before and decide they must automatically be guilty, that they can't possibly be reformed?" He suddenly realized that the one-way flow had been reversed and that all three of his questioners were looking slightly ill-at-ease.

He shook his head and said, "You don't have to answer that. I kind of think I already know what you'd say." He looked carefully at each one of them, trying to decipher their thoughts from their faces. It was impossible.

"The evidence is that the system isn't perfect. No human system ever is and that's why we've built in all the checks and balances and safeguards and appeals. But even with all of those, in the end, it's still not perfect. And in the end, it's the best system we have."

He didn't so much rest his case as shrug, and smile, and say, "Sorry, I can't lie, even if that's what it'd take. I mean, what would be the point?"

There was a moment of thoughtful silence. Portenoy closed her file, looking as though she had no further questions. Atterby turned to Tepitt, who also shrugged as if to say he had nothing further to ask.

Then Atterby cleared his throat and said, with a touch of officiousness, "That would appear to be all then, Mr. McCormick."

Mark twitched and looked up at the clock. The whole thing had been so short that it surely couldn't be a good sign. But everyone was starting to gather their papers and get up from the table.

"Wait," he said.

Atterby gave him a glance.

"When will I know?" Mark asked hesitantly, half wondering if they wouldn't stick their heads together right then and there and give him the bad news.

"A month or so," Portenoy said, "by mail."

And then they were edging out, not even exchanging any looks that could be interpreted. Mark sat for a moment, alone, not in any hurry to be stuck in the elevator with them for the trip down. On the other hand, Hardcastle would see them traipsing out from the lobby. He'd better be on the next one; any later than that would elicit comment.

00000

The judge was sitting on a bench outside, across the street, in a paved plaza with a fountain. As Mark emerged, trying not to slouch, he waved to catch the older man's attention and crossed against the light, in mid-street. Accidental death right now would save him a whole lot of explaining, but no one did him the kindness.

He thought he'd mastered a placid, accepting expression. It might have been a tad overdone. Hardcastle's first words were, "How'd it go?" and it had a hint of real inquiry to it, not just a perfunctory pleasantry.

Mark resisted the urge to say, 'It went', one of the usual post-exam catch-phrases he used to ward off jinxing. This seemed too monumentally important to be that glib about.

"I think I muffed it," he said quietly.

Hardcastle didn't try to contradict him, which would have been false comfort since he hadn't been there. Instead he asked, very calmly, "Why ya think that?"

It was a question, and Mark was well-trained to answer questions now.

"They didn't want to know if I was reformed. They wanted to know if I was _penitent_."

"Ah," the judge said simply, then dropped his chin to his chest. He lifted it again after a moment. He cracked a wry smile. "And I did tell you not to lie, huh?"

Mark's own smile reflected his. "Yeah, you did."

The older man stood, took his hand out of his pocket, and gave him another sharp slap on the shoulder. "Come on, I'll buy you a steak or something." He shook his head, still smiling. "Fine time to finally listen to me."

And Mark let himself be shepherded along, somehow not entirely displeased with himself.

**Three Weeks Later**

That Saturday was everything the other one had not been. A steely overcast sky roiled up over the Pacific while the rain flattened the waves. As opportunities for walking went, it was lousy, but since Mark had taken on the chore of fetching in the mail, he was out in it, though avoiding his self-appointed duty had made him take the long way 'round, inspecting the view from the cliff over the beach.

It wasn't possible to put it off forever, though, and the likelihood of one month meaning anything less, for a legal committee, was nil. Already decently soaked to the skin, he finally turned toward the driveway. His confidence that it was too soon for news kept his hands steady as he opened the box and the persistent rain made him shove the day's mail into his coat without studying it.

Once in the front hallway, though, he pulled it out and froze, looking down at the top envelope. He heard the television on in the den, marginally less loud than his heart just then.

He stepped in, still holding all of the mail in his left hand, except for the envelope with the bar association's return address on it. Hardcastle must've looked up and noticed the expression on his face. He was out of his chair, on his feet, the ballgame forgotten.

"Well, open it," he said, forcefully impatient, without even having laid eyes on the envelope.

Like an automaton, Mark put the rest of the now-forgotten mail on the desk and reached for the letter opener Hardcastle kept there. There was a sense of inevitability to it now. After all, the words were there within the envelope whether he opened it or not. No amount of praying or hoping could change them now.

He slit it opened and pulled out the single page within. He clumsily unfolded it, hoping the nervous tremor wasn't as visible as it felt.

He'd barely read past '…are pleased to inform you…' before the judge had snatched it from him and given it a slightly presbyopic look, then whooped and thumped him on the back.

"Ya did it," he said effusively, then shoved the paper back between Mark's hands. "Look!"

"_We_ did it," Mark said, freeing himself from his momentary shock.

Then he looked up at the older man and smiled. "And it's a good thing, too, because I don't think I was going to able to be sorry about not being sorry enough."


End file.
